Growing
by tfm
Summary: Sequel to Understanding. You've got plenty of time to re-evaluate your life when you're cuffed to a chair in an unsub's basement. Emily/Jordan. Mild fslash
1. Lollipops, Choices & the American Dream

Growing

_**The strongest principle of growth lies in human choice.**_

_George Eliot_

***

I

My psychiatrist tells me that I'm growing as a person.

'Of course,' he adds. 'I'm not just saying that because it's your birthday.' He gives me a strange smile, and hands me a lollipop. I'm not altogether sure that he is serious. Then he hands me my bill, which is a considerably less welcome birthday gift.

I realize then that I'm late; our session ran overtime, and it's almost ten minutes past ten.

His words made me think – if I'm growing as a person, then what was I before? A shell? An incomplete human prototype? A temporary placeholder, just waiting to be swapped out? What does that mean for my life so far? That all my choices have been in vain, that I've really just been leading up to this point?

I feel like some twisted example of how not to achieve the American Dream. Loving husband? Big house? White picket fence? 2.5 kids? I think I missed the memo. What I've got now is a dead lover that I can't get over, a toddler that I don't see nearly as often as I want to, and a job that has nearly killed me at least twice.

Would I change any of my choices?

Fuck, I don't know.

***

I'm rushing out of the elevator when I run into Jordan. Literally run into, that is. We almost take a tumble, but she grabs my wrist, stops me from falling. I'm not sure why she's on this floor – CTD is two floors up.

'Slow down, Emily.' She's smiling, and I realize that she's still holding my wrist. It's not a firm grasp, but a warm, comforting one.

'Sorry.' I try to smile, but I know my face is reddening. I'm blushing.

Oh God.

'I have to go,' I tell her. 'I'm running late.' Reluctantly, I pull my hand from hers, and I give her a small wave. I'm walking fast, partially to escape the embarrassment, partially because I'm now thirty-seven minutes late.

'Happy birthday,' she calls out after me.

Shit. Does _everyone _know?

Apparently, yes. I head straight for the briefing room, and I'm greeted by smiling faces – well, most of them are smiling, anyway. I'm glad they didn't go as far as to wear silly hats.

'Sorry I'm late.' I pant out the words. 'Appointment went overtime.' I don't tell them what kind of appointment, and they don't ask. They don't need to ask.

Derek pats me on the back. 'Happy birthday.' It's only ten-thirty, and I'm already sick of those words. 'But it looks like the heavy drinking will have to wait for another night.'

I roll my eyes. 'And here I was looking for a babysitter.' Of course, I'll need one anyway. 'What do we have?' I ask JJ. She hasn't actually started the briefing – they had all been waiting for me.

'Baltimore.' The appropriate photos jump onto the screen. Dead eyes seem to stare into your soul, an unending abyss. They test your limits, see how human you are, how deep that soul goes. They stopped affecting me a long time ago.

Was that a bad choice? Did it make me inhuman, unfeeling? Was her death some sick way of Fate telling me that I wasn't cut out for happiness? That I didn't deserve it.

'Seven women. All kidnapped, tortured and murdered.' The screen flashes again. I wonder if these women had husbands, had children. Did they end up lying in a ditch because of the choices they made? I'm only half listening as JJ continues the briefing, but I learnt a long time ago how to gather information without actually listening.

I intercept JJ on the way out. I don't even have to say anything before she nods at me. 'I'll call Will. Henry's been looking forward to seeing her.' I almost feel my heart break, knowing that JJ's son probably has a better relationship with my daughter than I do. But then, that's the price I pay – the consequences for the choices I've made.

***

We drive to Baltimore. It's barely forty miles, but with horrendous traffic, it takes us nearly an hour and a half. In the back seat, Reid is explaining how we would cut fourteen minutes off our travel time if we drove as the crow flies. I'm not listening.

Upon leaving the briefing room, I discover the reason for Jordan's presence on this floor. A tiny package is sitting on my desk. It's wrapped in blue paper, and the message reads "To Emily. Hope you have a happy birthday. Love Jordan."

Huh.

I had put it in my ready bag. It's something I want to open in private.

'You okay?' Morgan asks me. His eyes are kept straight ahead, on the seemingly endless line of cars.

'Yeah,' I tell him. 'Yeah, I'm good.'


	2. Happy Birthday

Growing

_**Whatever you think, be sure it is what you think; whatever you want, be sure that is what you want; whatever you feel, be sure that is what you feel.**_

_T.S. Eliot_

***

II

We're booked into a small motel. It's either this, or brave the traffic every day we spend on this investigation, and frankly, I'm not interested in car trips right now. It's only midday, so we leave our ready bags in the SUVs, and we go straight to the local field office.

The gift that's sitting at the top of my bag, drawing me, enticing me – it'll have to wait.

'So how does it feel?' Morgan asks me. I notice that he's waited the entire trip to ask, assessing my behavior, assuring himself that I'm not going to bite his head off. There's a grin on his face.

'How does what feel?'

'Old age.' I roll my eyes.

'Oh no,' I tell him. 'You can't be told what it is; you have to see it for yourself.' My words put a confused look on his face. In the back seat, Reid laughs.

His words do make me think, though. How _does _it feel? Knowing that half your life may be gone already. It's that thing about choices again. It always seems to be coming back around. All of this has happened before, and all of this will happen again.

'Forty isn't so bad.' I'm serious this time. 'Fifty is going to be the problem.'

'Don't let Rossi hear you say that,' he laughs. I don't see the humor in being compared to David Rossi.

***

So. Victimology. I can say without a doubt that my mind is elsewhere. It hits me that I'm having a mid-life crisis in the middle of a murder investigation. I've always been one of those people that look at balding men in their shiny new convertibles, and pity them. And now I'm there.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

'Seven victims, age ranging from twenty to forty. All were tortured for three days before being killed and dumped.' JJ's reiterating the facts, just in case we might have forgotten after looking at the file a hundred times on the way over.

_Like your cynicism is helping_, a voice tells me. I've told that voice to shut up more than once, but this time I know it's right.

All the women worked in the same circles, had similar jobs. Finding the exact link might be difficult. The common denominator could be anything from a disgruntled IT worker, to a prospective client. So we go through the files, we make the lists.

And now, it's questioning time.

***

Rossi is driving. He apparently can't seem to stop himself from interfering in other people's businesses. I call it interfering, but really I know that all he's trying to do is help.

'So how're things with Jordan?'

My head snaps up. He's an omniscient son of a bitch. I can't hide anything from him.

'They're…uh…progressing.' I settle on the phrase, but I'm not happy with the wording. It might have something to do with the fact that things aren't progressing in the least.

'Can't work up the courage to ask her out?'

Damn him.

It's always been a solid friendship between Jordan and I. We've had ups and downs, sure, but all friendships do. At some points, though, I felt that maybe it extended a little beyond friendship.

'Nope.'

'Would it help to know that she likes you?'

'Not in the least.'

***

So we question Steve Clarke. Edward Black. Malcolm Watts. Robert Ward. A bunch of names that mean nothing to me. Looking into their eyes, I don't see anything evil, but then, that's where they get you. They have happy, innocent eyes, right up until the point where they garrote you from behind.

_Cynicism_, the little voice tells me.

And ultimately, we find nothing. Just a list of people who have no idea who might have tortured these women. Any one of them could be lying. But that's what we're here to find out.

***

I dump my ready bag on the bed, unzip it. The blue package sits on top of my clothes. I open it carefully, slowly. Savoring the moment.

It smells musty, but then, all old books do. The pages are a little bit crumpled, the cover a little bit worn, but hell, this must have been pretty fucking hard to find. I put it down softly on the bed, careful not to damage it.

I get out my cell, debating whether or not to call and thank her. I go outside where the air is clearer, where I can think clearly. The fresh air wakes me up. My finger hovers over the call button, hesitant.

I'm not paying attention to the outside world. All my thoughts are focused on the phone, on the call I know I have to make.

Fingers encircle my throat.

_What the…?_

Happy fucking birthday.


	3. A Knife In The Dark

Growing

_**Cheerfulness, it would appear, is a matter which depends fully as much on the state of things within, as on the state of things without and around us.**_

_Charlotte Bronte_

***

III

I'm fairly sure I didn't fall asleep like this. Scratch that – I'm absolutely positive I didn't fall asleep with a pounding headache and my hands cuffed to a chair.

It's hard to breathe. My neck aches; then, I remember the hands. The hands throttling me in the cool Baltimore breeze.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

I find it interesting, almost ironic. The only day in years that I've felt like dissociating myself from work, and I'm put in a position where even working at all is difficult. It's jarring. I've got all this time to think.

As long as I'm not too busy screaming.

***

He knocks on her door. He's got a wrapped gift in one hand, and a plate in the other. It took all his charm, all his flirtatious prowess, to get room service to send up just two slices of cake.

'Emily? Come on, girl, you can't hide from me forever.' He's grinning as he says it, but soon the grin fades. He expected that she would have made a sarcastic reply by now or at the very least an unintelligible moan. He knocks harder.

'Emily?' He's almost yelling now. He wants to kick down the door, but he knows the aggression may be premature. She could be asleep for all he knew. Instead, he goes to Hotch's room.

'Emily's not answering her door.' Immediately, Hotch realizes that this is serious. It's barely eight p.m. Even on the best of nights, Emily doesn't get to sleep before midnight.

'Kick it in,' he orders. Morgan nods.

'Emily?' he tries again. 'I'm kicking the door in.' He knows that if she's just being trying to be introverted, she'll answer. Not even privacy is worth the cost of a new door.

He sees her ready bag neatly placed in a corner, a few key items in strategic locations about the room. Her gun, badge and wallet on the bedside table, along with a book. There is no human presence in the room.

'No sign of a struggle,' Morgan concludes. In any case, they had heard nothing.

'Reception,' Hotch suggests, and Morgan nods.

'She went outside,' the desk clerk told them. 'About an hour and a half ago.'

'Did you see her come back in?' The desk clerk shrugs.

'I didn't see anything, but it was pretty busy for a while, so she could have slipped back in without me seeing.'

They go outside.

'Hotch…' Morgan's voice is uncharacteristically despondent. He's kneeling to the ground, picking up something. He hands his find to Hotch – it's Emily's cell. The screen is cracked, the casing falling off. As though it had been dropped.

'Fuck!' Morgan swears, exasperated. 'He's got her, Hotch.'

Hotch doesn't need to be told twice. He's had that sickening feeling ever since Morgan knocked on his door.

'Get the rest of the team down here,' he instructs. Morgan leaves hurriedly, and Hotch's next words are caught by the night air. 'Somehow I don't think we'll be sleeping tonight.'

***

I feel like I should be scared, afraid for my own life. I'm feeling frustrated, for sure, but mostly, I'm feeling boredom. I've been through enough with the team to trust them. To know that they will do whatever it takes. I feel flattered, knowing that I mean that much to them.

There's a tiny bit of doubt. A tiny bit of me that's wondering "If I die here, will I regret the things I've done?" Of course, I'd change the past if I could, but that's about fate, not about choices. I'm talking – would my life have taken a different turn if I'd bought chocolate ice-cream last week rather than vanilla? I know I don't exactly have control over what type of ice-cream the store is selling, over what choices I _can_ make.

Like here, now. Would I have chosen to be kidnapped and cuffed to a chair in the darkness? Probably not. But could I have stopped it, not knowing that it was going to happen? No.

I think about the people who will miss me if I do die here. About the BAU, about Jordan, about my daughter. I know that she'll be in good hands, if anything should happen to me. Will she remember me? Will she know who her mother was? I doubt it.

That's one of the things I would change.

I feel a knife at my cheek. I'd been so busy thinking, that I hadn't even noticed the soft footfalls coming my way.

I know how this starts.

I know how this ends.

I'll just have to hold on for the meantime.


	4. Fake Smile

Growing

_Change your thoughts and you change your world._

_**Norman Vincent Peale**_

***

Interlude I

Warning: some adult themes, and more **explicit fslash** in this chapter. Events of this chapter were mentioned briefly in "Understanding."

_Twenty-one years, two months and eight days ago._

I've got my fake smile on.

It's this smile that I give to all the foreign dignitaries, all those rich people in their tuxedos and their cocktail dresses. I almost vomit at the thought of it. I'm holding a champagne flute by the stem, sipping just a little bit too fast. I'm fake smiling at something the – God, I don't even know who he is. Is he an Ambassador? Royalty? His voice is far too slurred for me to discern his accent. Behind him, a bodyguard of some description rolls his eyes, as if this is a common occurrence.

He gives a loud, bellowing laugh, sounding more like an animal in heat than the sophisticated emissary that he is supposed to be. In my political experience, if you get to a certain level of importance, people expect you to be loud and raucous. I appease him with a fake laugh, though I have no idea what is so fucking funny.

The bodyguard whispers something into my companion's ear. He gives a disgruntled noise, and wanders off, without even saying goodbye. It's not like I care, though. The bodyguard gives me an apologetic smile. Immediately, I realize that he is apologizing, not for me losing my company, but for the fact that I was forced into a conversation with him in the first place.

I take a long sip of my champagne.

'He's looking for a trophy wife.' The voice comes from behind me, and it's one that I don't recognize. I turn.

She's about my height, light brown hair, blue eyes. She's wearing a strapless black dress.

'I'm sorry?' It's true that I hadn't quite comprehended her words, but mostly I just want to see those lips move. They're very nice lips.

'My father,' she says. 'He's looking for a trophy wife. He doesn't seem to care that you're the same age as I am.' I almost retch at the thought.

'Katherine.' She holds her hand out, and I shake it.

'Emily.'

'Ambassador Prentiss' daughter, right?' she asks, and I nod in affirmation.

'My father just started his assignment as Romanian Ambassador.' I nod. It makes sense – I had heard talk about the house of a new Ambassador. 'He's slightly more diplomatic when he's sober,' she tells me. She glances in his direction. 'I think he's still trying to find the right balance.'

This time, when I laugh, it's real.

***

Her kisses brush lightly against my neck. We're both slightly tipsy, but not at the stage where our inhibitions are severely impaired. This is nothing if not consensual.

'Have you ever done this before?' Her breath is warm against my skin. I realize at that point that my hands are at the thigh slits of her dress, pushing upwards.

'A few times,' I say. It's true that I've had more experience with the male of the species, but this is by no means my first rodeo. She looks down hesitantly at my hands.

'Does it bother you?' I ask. 'We can stop, if you'd like.' I pull away, letting her dress fall down.

'No.' She takes my hand, and replaces it on her thigh. 'No, I want to do this.'

***

It's a stroke of luck that this particular function is taking place in a private residence. If we were at an Embassy or a hotel function room, we would have had a much harder time finding somewhere private.

At events like this, it is almost expected that one or two couples will excuse themselves for more interesting ventures, but in any case, I'm not worried about getting caught. I've got far more important things on my mind.

Her dress is hanging limply on the corner of the bed. My lips are gently caressing her lower stomach, while her hands push back the straps of my own dress. I move my lips lower, starting to experiment with my tongue. My fingers hook into her panties.

She gives an ecstatic moan at the movement of my tongue; it's rather loud, but I don't really acknowledge that fact. I'm somewhat occupied.

Her back arches almost violently, so I think I've done something right.

'Emily?'

Oh fuck. Oh, fuck me. I didn't even hear the door open. I freeze, a deer in the headlights. Apprehensive, my head turns towards the door. My mother is standing there, watching.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

***

Katherine leaves rather quickly – as soon as she has redressed. It is a standoff between my mother and I. She's staring at me, and I get the sudden urge to go wash my face.

'You don't knock?' There is venom in my voice. Any privacy I might have had in my life is gone.

'I saw the two of you,' she starts.

'We were talking,' I shoot back angrily. 'You're going to restrict who I'm allowed to talk to now? Does having a bisexual daughter bother you that much?' I'm not trying to deny what she saw, but I know that the kissing definitely did not start until we were behind closed doors. The only way my mother could have known was if she had been keeping a watchful eye on me from the start.

'You think I'm stupid, don't you?' she asks. I stare back, stunned. Where did she get that from? 'You think I don't pay attention to you, to your life. Please, Emily, an Ambassador reads people for a living. You don't maintain diplomatic relations between two countries with good luck. I've had my suspicions since the day you told me you wanted to go to SSE high school.'

'So why the fuck does it bother you so much?' Such vulgar language is something that is frowned upon in the Prentiss household. Right now, I'm so pissed off I don't care.

She does not scold me for the words.

'She wanted the two of you to get caught, you realize? I could hear her from across the hallway.'

I scoff. 'You think she was trying to tarnish my good name?' Sarcasm is another thing that has always been frowned upon. I remember the lectures; lectures that I've never really taken to heart.

'Emily, Katherine St. Clair is nothing but a little girl that wants her Daddy's attention. Her father is looking to remarry, and she just doesn't want someone other than her in his life. She's acting out. She isn't interested in you even remotely. Why do you think she ran so quickly when she realized that it was me at the door?' She's trying to use her "mother" voice – a voice that gives an impression of compassion – but she is still too caught up in "Ambassador" mode.

Deep down, had I already known that? From birth, I've had the art of reading people hammered into me, as an extra-curricular activity would be for a normal child. I've been taught to know when people are happy, when they're sad, in spite of other evidence to the contrary. Why is it then, that whenever I find myself engaged in an apparently romantic encounter, I ignore the warning signs completely? Am I giving myself false hope?

And this is the point in life where I vow never to make stupid, primal choices again.


	5. Family

Growing

_**We make a living by what we get, we make a life by what we give.**_

_Sir Winston Churchill_

***

IV

He's saying something, but I can't quite make out the words. I do comprehend the tone, though, and it isn't a pleasant one. He's trying to humiliate me, to break me.

'...your kind isn't fit to walk this planet.' He's repeating the same mantra, over and over again, yet he hasn't really said which bit he's so agitated about. Why me? This isn't one of those "Oh God, why did this ever happen to me?" shticks. This is profiling 101. If I know why, then I'll know a little more about him, about his motivations, how he got to this place. How I can beat him somehow.

Of course, bleeding to death makes things a little bit harder. I'm being cynical, you say?

_No, really?_

'...all the same, sleeping your way to the top.'

Excellent. Misogynist. How much more clichéd can this guy get? Doesn't he know about all those other guys that killed women because they hated their mothers? Doesn't he know how textbook this profile is?

No rape, so he's probably impotent. Most misogynists can't wait for the chance to really drive the message home. According to the reports, any penetration during torture had been the result of "non-penile origins," to put it bluntly. It's not something I'm particularly looking forward to, but then, I could have done without the majority of tonight's events. Some, though, I'll keep.

I can taste blood as his fist strikes my face again. He's personalising this. Prefers to be here, inflicting the pain, the violence. He could have locked me into some diabolical torture machine that would have been far more effective, but no. He likes to watch.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

So. Misogynist, impotent, sadist. What else?

Not particularly imposing, now that I can see him. He gets his power from fighting someone who can't fight back. He had the strength in him to strangle me into unconsciousness, sure, but I think – I hope – that was because I had been distracted. Trapped in my own little world.

That's compartmentalization for you.

I wonder what my life would be like if I had grown up with a different mentality, a different family, maybe. Would I still be this over-bearing cynic who couldn't express a real emotion if she tried?

He grabs my chin, directs my face upward so my eyes lock with his. Rossi and I had interviewed this man earlier today. He had shown no sign of this malice, this hatred.

'Do you feel so powerful now?' he asks me. I keep his gaze. He isn't expecting that. He's expecting me to cower in fear, like the cowardly woman I'm supposed to be. I make a noise of contempt before I even realize that I'm doing it.

_Great job, Emily_. _Now he's going to take even more pleasure in making you scream_.

He looks at me with those distant eyes of his, as though he was somehow expecting this. Expecting that I wouldn't conform to his ideas. That I wouldn't willingly play the victim. For someone who's not playing the victim, I sure as hell feel like I'm playing the victim.

I feel the pain before I comprehend what his is doing. I feel the nerve endings burn as the message is passed on by the receptors. Feel the screaming sensation of fire against my skin. And then, I feel nothing.

***

They're going over what they know for the hundredth time at least. They know that seven women have been kidnapped, tortured and murdered. They know that Emily is missing. They know that it is likely they have already met the unsub. They know they have, at maximum, three days before they find another corpse. They know that the torture has probably already started.

Everyone seems to be in a rather melancholy mood, and it isn't surprising. They've all got contingency plans in case something like this happens to them; in case they are kidnapped, killed in action, broken beyond repair. Instructions on what to tell their families, their friends. Emily's relatives are limited to a mother who is rarely ever in the same country as her, and a daughter that isn't yet old enough to understand the concept of death.

Hotch knows that if a phone call is to be made, then he will have to be the one to make it. JJ knows that she will be the one to tell a two-year-old girl that her mommy won't be coming home. Though they are both strong people, just the thought of doing this almost tears them apart. They need to find her.

They've been through situations like this before. They are so similar, yet so different. It feels the same as the time Reid went missing in Georgia, or the time he and Emily were in a cult compound in Colorado, yet it feels different this time, because they have no idea just what state she is in. Whether or not she will survive the torture that this unsub throws at her.

But they will persevere.

Because that's what you do for family.


	6. Proactivity

Growing

_**Indeed, history is nothing more than a tableau of crimes and misfortunes.**_

_Voltaire_

***

V

I don't know what time it is when I wake up, but I get the feeling it's early. Even sadists need to get their sleep apparently, because I'm completely alone. All I can hear is my own rasping breath, and (though it's probably my overactive imagination) the beat of my heart.

I'm fairly sure my adrenal gland has gone into overdrive. I'm supposed to be "fighting or flighting," but right now, I'm not exactly in a position to do either. But I'm not an FBI agent for nothing.

It's not just about looking good in a dark suit and sunglasses, maybe with a side of Kevlar. It's about being able to think on the spot. To look outside the box. To problem solve. And this is a hell of a problem that needs solving.

I'm cuffed to a chair in an unsub's basement. He's been getting his rocks off on other people's pain. I'll be dead in less than three days if I don't do anything. The team is looking for me, but there's no guarantee that they'll find me before my heart stops beating. In any case, I don't really plan on sitting around doing nothing.

The unsub's a smart guy, but he doesn't have much experience with imprisoning his victims, so to speak. Just within my line of sight, I can see half a dozen implements that would be of use.

Shuffling the chair across the room is difficult. I'm bleeding from a dozen places, and I manage to tip the chair over more than once. It feels like it takes hours, but in reality, it's probably no more than twenty minutes. If he was really knowledgeable about these things, he would have tied my legs as well. He would have cuffed my hands behind my back, instead of to the arms of the chair. He's got a lot to learn, and I for one, am looking forward to making sure he doesn't get a chance to learn it.

Seriously. What kind of idiot keeps his torture tools within reach of his victim? Granted, I'm fairly sure the rest of his victims weren't trained to kick down doors, or grit their teeth at excruciating pain, but surely at least one of them would have tried to use one of these things as a weapon.

I bite back the pain as I try and maneuver the chair. Of course, if I had the right upper body strength, I could have tried breaking the chair arms, but chances are I'd end up breaking my own arms.

Reid makes lock-picking look so simple. He's got long, delicate fingers, and the cuffs seem to just fall apart after a few seconds. He's given a few simple demonstrations – God knows we're all getting kidnapped with far greater frequency than we'd like – but it's difficult under pressure. It's hard to get the right angle, and the stupid skewer keeps slipping out of my hand, and I'm more likely to poke myself with it, rather than actually finding the lock.

_Come on, Emily, you can do this._

Oh great. The little voice is being supportive for once. It makes a nice change from the constant cynicism.

Come on, come on.

Click.

Thank fucking God.

I pull my wrist away, gyrating it to increase circulation. There'll be bruising soon – and not just on the wrists. I imagine there'll be a few lasting effects of the experience. It's not a comforting thought. The second one doesn't take as long – having a hand free does wonders for dexterity.

And then I'm standing. That almost seems to take longer than the whole "getting free" process. My legs aren't quite responding to the brain's commands. It's just one of those nasty side-effects of being tortured.

My hand runs along the table, stopping at a long knife. I'm not exactly the most well trained in knife-fighting – it's frowned upon by the Bureau – but he wasn't stupid enough to leave a firearm on the table, and I don't really trust my body to remember all those self-defense moves they taught us in training.

It's gripped in my hand. I'm ready to get out of here.

And of course, that's when the door opens.

**A/N: Yes, it's been a while. No, I haven't forgotten. I just tend to update faster when there's positive reception of the chapter in question. Keep that in mind.**


	7. Fight or Flight

Growing

_**One never knows what each day is going to bring. The important thing is to be open and ready for it.**_

_Henry Moore_

***

VI

Fan-fucking-tastic.

I seriously wonder sometimes what I must have done to build up so much bad karma. With all the crap that's been going on lately, you'd have thought I'd killed a litter of puppies or something.

I'm armed. That's something. I don't really know what that's going to count for, considering the things he's been putting me through for the last…how long has it been?

My body's pumping out the epinephrine. That freeze, fight or flight cliché. I can't flee. I'll die if I freeze. The only thing left is fight. And that's some small token of luck, because that's probably what I would have done anyway. Fight, win, get the hell out of here.

I'm not sure fate has the same plans I do.

I'm on the attack before he's even made it inside. All the decision making, all the deliberation, has barely taken more than half a second. I'm reminded of the last time I got into a knife fight, only he was the one with the knife that time, and I was a hell of a lot angrier. I'm not angry now, so much as I am annoyed. As if it's nothing more than a minor hurdle in my life, as if it isn't a life-threatening situation.

I'm trying to think of every single class I've taken on close-quarters combat. Every single time I've sparred with Morgan in the gym, every fight I've gotten into in my entire life. All of a sudden, all I can think of is the time that Morgan had Reid in a headlock, and wouldn't let go until the younger profiler could successfully escape his hold. I guess I'm almost tying with Reid when it comes to getting kidnapped. By this point, I seriously wonder if I'll ever see any of them again. All of it seems so inconsequential. Fifteen years of professional experience. Forty years of life experience. All leading up to this point. This is the point where I decide if I'm going to live, or if I'm going to die.

The question is, have I really been living anyway? That's questionable. At least, it has been since Lee's death. I don't need a shrink to tell me that I've been going through the motions. And that's something I'm hoping to change if I can just get out of here alive.

The knife scores across his abdomen; I'd taken him by surprise. He recovers quickly, grabbing at the follow-through of my arm, whilst simultaneously throwing a punch. His fist cracks my nose, and I stumble backwards slightly, pulling him with me. I can already feel the blood trickling down towards my lips.

My foot connects with something on the ground, and we both fall backwards, my hand still on the knife, and his hand still on my wrist. I'm at the disadvantage now, his body pressed on top of mine. We're both breathing heavily, and I can see the almost crazed look in his eyes. He wants to kill me. He isn't going to give up.

But neither am I.

I don't quite have the strength to gain the advantage in the traditional sense, and I know that I'm fading fast. It's getting a lot harder to breath, and the pain from my various injuries isn't quite blocked out by the adrenaline. I'm vaguely aware of him pushing my wrist upwards, closer and closer to my neck. It brushes lightly against my skin, not enough to draw blood, but enough to know that he could kill me with just one quick thrust. It's a terrifying thought, but not nearly as terrifying as all the stuff the team has dealt with over the years.

'You're going to die,' he tells me, matter-of-factly. 'I'm going to make sure that it's oh so slow. I'm going to make sure-'

I take advantage of his distraction, pushing upwards suddenly. The blade pierces his jugular, with every bit of force I can manage behind it. The warm blood spurts out – not a fountain, but fast enough that his hands go straight to his throat. I don't know if it's too late for him, and quite frankly, at this point, I don't care.

The door is still open, so I get to my feet, painfully aware of the numerous wounds that are now screaming for attention. I don't know what I had been expecting, but it still surprises me to see a regular house beyond the boundaries of the door. A house with a kitchen, a dining room. Not some monster's lair with dungeons and fiery pits of doom. But that's a good thing. Because a house, in my experience, usually has a phone.

This house has its phone in the kitchen, right next to the fruit bowl, and I almost laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. Instead, I find myself using the kitchen counter as a crutch, my energy meter so very, very close to being completely empty.

The phone feels awkward in my hands, as if my fingers are numb, or they're being controlled by someone else. It takes several attempts to punch out the first phone number I can think of, which happens to be Morgan's cell number, and even then it's only because it has an above average number of 4's in it.

'_Morgan,_' he answers, and his voice sounds tired and sharp at the same time. It's light outside, which means I've been here for at the very least, twelve hours.

'Morgan…' I repeat his name because my mind feels so chaotic right now that I can't really think of anything better to say.

'_Emily, are you alright?'_ His tone is nothing but concern now, and I feel a sudden rush of warmth for the team. '_Where are you?_'

'I…' I'm about to answer the first question – to tell him that I'm fine, and that they need to get their asses over here pronto, because I really need to take a nap. Then I notice blood stain that's slowly seeping through my blouse, and I realize that I'm probably not as alright as I think I am. 'Please,' is all I get a chance to say before the phone slips from my grasp and my head slams into the linoleum floor.


	8. Birth and Rebirth

**Title: **Growing**  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Fandom: ** Criminal Minds**  
Universe: **Time is Running Out (Part 2)**  
Characters/Pairing: **Prentiss/Jordan**  
Genre: **Drama/Angst**  
Summary: **You've got plenty of time to re-evaluate your life when you're cuffed to a chair in an unsub's basement.

Growing

_**The longest journey is the journey inward.**_

_Dag Hammarskjold_

***

Interlude II

_Two years, eleven months and seventeen days ago_

My arm, still in its sling, is throbbing slightly. Outside, the sun is shining – it's a bright, happy day, and I'm not sure it has any right to be.

Loss is hard to deal with. I see it all the time, in the family and friends of victims – in people whose lives have been torn apart by the actions of a killer. To switch sides so rapidly – to be become someone left behind…It's jarring. Death from natural causes, and death from murder are two very different things, but in both cases you've got to try and put it all behind you.

It's kind of hard to do, when every time I close my eyes, I can hear her screams, see the look in her eyes, even though I was never there. Knowing that he's in custody doesn't help matters in the slightest.

The silence in the apartment is depressing. Even if I didn't need to go out, I would have left, simply to get away from the all-consuming emptiness. But then, my reason for leaving the apartment somehow makes me feel even more depressed.

Logically, it shouldn't. I know I should be happy that I'm bringing a child into this world. But I can't. I was never supposed to do this alone. I don't thinkI _can_ do this alone.

And apparently I'm not.

The knock comes just as I'm picking up my keys from the table in the hallway, about to call a cab. I still can't drive with the healing knife wound, and I really don't want to face public transport. Not today.

'Just a second,' I call out, checking the peephole.

Shit.

It's JJ. I'm fairly sure that it's Garcia who's hacked into my medical records and told her where I'm going today. I'm not sure I want anyone to see me like this; an emotional wreck, even though it's several weeks after the fact.

It takes over a minute to sort out the locks and the chains and the deadbolts in place, something that's not made any easier by an arm that I can't use. According to my G.P, I should be able to lose the sling soon, but after that, it'll be at a point where I'll be staying out of the field for a different reason altogether.

'Hey,' I say, giving her a smile of welcome. She doesn't buy it. She's not a profiler, but then, she doesn't need to be.

'You ready?' she asks, as if she's supposed to even be there. 'Morgan's double-parked, so we can't take too long getting down there.'

Every part of me feels like I should be arguing, but I don't. _This is what family does_, a small part of me says. Family is there for one another, in good times and in bad.

I nod numbly, grabbing my bag and step out, pausing only to fumble with my keys at the lock. JJ offers to help, but I decline. There are some things I need to do for myself. I don't want to get dependent. The last time I came close to depending on someone ended in a funeral.

Morgan gives me a warm smile as I slide into the front seat of the SUV. How they'd managed to secure a Bureau vehicle for a personal matter, I don't know, but I'm not about to ask. It's bad enough that they're going out of their way to do this. It must be a slow day at the office.

Of all the team, it makes sense that they're the ones doing this. JJ's already a mother, and Morgan's always been the one with that protective streak. To be honest, it probably would have weirded me out a little to see Hotch or Reid doing something like this – Reid's got that social awkwardness, and Hotch is more prone to giving professional support, even if it's clear that he does care. Rossi or Garcia wouldn't have phased me, but then, there's only so much assistance they can give without making it feel like they're crowding me.

The fact that I'm profiling them doesn't even cross my mind.

The ultrasound goes as well as can be expected. I'm at around twelve weeks, and I ignore the stares and look straight at my OBYGN when asked about my pregnancy history. That makes three out of the seven members of the team that know, and it's supposed to be zero. They don't say anything, but I know they're thinking about it.

So am I.

***

_Two years, ten months and nine days ago_

I go back to work. I get a lot of congratulatory comments, though I'm not sure if it's because I'm back, or because of the slight swell in my abdomen. I can see the pity in their eyes, and all it does is make me angry, even if I don't really know why.

Guess it's the hormones.

I run into Jordan on the elevator, and she gives me a smile. She, at least, is happy to see me. We've kept in contact since her return to CTD, and it's the kind of friendship that isn't the same as what I have with Garcia, or with JJ. It feels personal, rather than professional. I find myself revealing things to her that I never did to the team; not just the deep, dark secrets. The little stuff.

She gives me a hug, which isn't entirely unwelcome. There's pity, but it's not the sad, pathetic, "oh, she must be so lonely now," kind of pity. It's a genuine, supporting kind of sympathy.

'It's a girl,' I blurt out. Non-sequitur, definitely, and I start mentally kicking myself almost immediately. She gives me another hug, but I realize that if I don't leave soon I'm going to dig myself further into a hole. That, and I'll be late for work. Not good for my first day back. I'll be working victimology and conducting witness interviews for the next five months, but that doesn't mean I'll slack off about it.

Part of it though, is that if I don't bury myself in work, I'll inevitably start thinking about what had happened, and I get enough of that in my mandatory psych sessions. I get enough of that in the empty silences of the apartment. I get enough of that when I look at the sonogram of the child that brings back every single one of those memories.

I'm supposed to move on, but I don't think I can. There's too much holding me back.

***

_Two years, three months and twelve days ago_

It's early on a Thursday evening, and I'm at my desk finishing up some paperwork when I feel the first pain. It feels like a regular pain at first, the kind I've gotten used to over the last six months. Then, it hits me – a sharp stab of near unbearable agony, and I find myself clutching at the desk, fingers sliding against the wood. A slight moan escapes my lips.

It doesn't go unnoticed. After all, I work with people that are trained to observe the minutiae of human behavior. Morgan and Reid are both on their feet in a second.

'Emily, are you alright?' Morgan asks. His voice sounds a little blurry, like he's standing on the other side of the room.

'I don't…I'm…' There's another pain, and any words fall away. Breaths come in deep gulps, and I can't stop the tears from springing up in my ducts.

'Hospital,' Morgan's saying, and I wouldn't argue even if I could get the words out. Reid goes to get the rest of the team, and I'm almost grateful that he's not there to reel off the statistics of preterm labor. At least, I'm hoping like hell that's what this is. The alternative I don't want to consider – my feelings might be a little mixed about this, but I know I'd be even more broken if I lose this child.

Getting to the hospital seems to take an eternity, made even longer by the fact that I don't know how this is going to end. Reid doesn't need to tell me the statistics for me to know that chances are it could end very, very badly. Back-alley abortions in Italy aren't exactly conducive to healthy child-birth in the future, even if it has been twenty-three years.

The hours pass as though I'm trapped in some hellish dimension, where time is slowed down, and all I can feel is the pain and the fear. The nature of the situation leaves my boundaries down, and I'm a little easier at admitting both of those weaknesses. The screaming leaves no room for subtlety, but it's not until I squeeze the fingers of the hand in my grasp, and whisper, 'I'm scared,' that I realize I'm only telling them about these fears for the first time.

Fears that raising this child might hurt too much. Fears that maybe I'm not cut out for parenthood. Fears that I can't do this alone.

The fingers, which happen to belong to JJ, squeeze back, and she says, 'I know,' and then I realize that I'm not alone.

I never have been.

***

_Two years, three months and eleven days ago_

I hold her in my arms.

A child.

My child.

My daughter.

She's small, but there are no complications from the early birth – at least none that have presented themselves yet.

'She's a fighter,' Garcia says with a smile, 'Just like her mommy.'

Mommy. The word seems foreign – a destination I never thought I'd reach. Within sight, but always just out of my grasp.

'I think little miss fighter needs a feed,' I say, in lieu of anything else. I move her head to my chest, brushing the nipple against her cheek. She latches on, and at first it feels strange, but the sensation doesn't last.

'Little miss fighter isn't exactly a name you can put on a birth certificate,' Morgan jokes from across the room. He – and the rest of the team – had offered to leave for this part, but to be honest, I'd rather they stay. They'd stayed for the hours of me sweating and swearing and doing other sorts of things that co-workers aren't usually supposed to see, so I figure anything after that is tame. In any case, I don't want to be left alone.

That said, he's brought up the elephant in the room. A name. I know what it should be logically speaking, but part of me just can't name her after someone who had been brutally murdered. Someone I _loved_ who had been brutally murdered, no less.

'I…Sarah,' I say eventually, adding, 'She wanted something simple.' There's a short silence, and Garcia gives me another smile, only this one has sadness in it. I don't blame her. I'm not exactly lightening the mood.

And when the time comes, I give the name _Sarah Alyson Prentiss_, because I know I'll never really able to throw that part of me away.

I just hope I can be the kind of parent she would have been.


	9. Have You Ever Seen The Rain?

**Title: **Growing  
**Rating: **PG-13**  
Fandom: **Criminal Minds  
**Universe: **Time Is Running Out (Part 2)**  
Characters/Pairing:** Prentiss/Jordan  
**Genre: **Drama/Angst**  
Summary: **You've got plenty of time to re-evaluate your life when you're cuffed to a chair in an unsub's basement.**  
**

Growing

_**The unexamined life is not worth living.**_

_Socrates_

VII

My eyes open, and I start hoping like hell I'm in my own bed, and it's all some ridiculous dream, but it's not. I'm still lying here on the kitchen floor, bleeding to death. I cling to consciousness like it's the most beautiful damn thing in the world. Pain seems to intersect with numbness, and I can feel the stinging pain at my abdomen, and the throbbing of my head. Concussion, maybe. It's not a particularly soft floor. I'm going to need to start a tally soon enough.

I clamor for the phone, fingers slipping against it, trying to grab hold. It takes every bit of strength to lock it in my grip and bring it back up to my ear. Doing so exacerbates the pain, and I let out an involuntary whimper.

Not the most overwhelming display of strength there, Prentiss.

'_Emily_?' It's Morgan's voice again, and he sounds far away, though I'm pretty sure that's the head wound.

'Please…' I manage to choke out. 'I don't think I can…' Words fail me at this point, but that's one of the great things about working with profilers. They don't always need words.

Of course, that can be a bad thing when you're trying to keep secrets, but right now, I don't really give a flying fuck about secrets.

All I want is to go home.

Dorothy Gale, eat your heart out. Emily Prentiss from Quantico is here to take the stage.

'_Garcia's tracing the call,_' Morgan says. '_Stay on the line. We'll be there soon. Hold on, Emily…Keep talking._'

Keep talking. What am I going to talk about? I'm lying on the floor bleeding to death in some sociopath's murder house. Talking about the weather feels a little mundane.

'_Tell me about Sarah_.' His voice crackles, and for a second she almost thinks that he's crying, but that's not right. Derek Morgan doesn't cry. '_What's her favorite toy?_'

'She likes the…' I scrunch my brow, trying to remember. 'She likes the stuffed dragon that Garcia gave her.' I manage a small laugh. 'His name is Puff.'

'_That's good, Emily. Just hold on. What other toys does she like?_' I know what he's trying to do, but not even those thoughts are enough to keep out the darkness that's eating away at my vision. I try to hold on for the team. I try for my daughter. I try for Lee. For Jordan, even if she'll never really know just how much she means to me. There are so many things that I need to say, but I just can't say them. I'm beyond talking, beyond praying.

'I'm sorry…' are the last words I can manage before the darkness takes me over completely.

The sirens blare in his ear, and the speed limit seems a mere suggestion. Morgan keeps the phone pressed at his ear, just in case Emily says anything more, but it doesn't seem likely; there's been silence on the line for a while now. Too long.

He's got the Kevlar strapped on, the address punched into the GPS, and an itchy trigger finger. It's almost a good thing that Hotch is driving, because he's pretty sure he'd have crashed the car by now, which is the last thing they need. The paramedics are following pretty closely, because from what they know, there's a snowball's chance in hell that there aren't going to be injuries.

They don't know the detailed nature of the situation – the fact that Emily had managed to get to a phone suggests that she'd somehow escaped, but that doesn't mean that the threat is gone. She hadn't exactly been in any shape to further explain the situation.

He gives a sideways glance to Hotch, whose expression is a stoic grimace. Unsurprising.

They've lost too much already. They can't lose Emily too.

The silence is overwhelming. He imagines the situation to be much the same in the other SUV. Not even Reid will dare to make a comment about statistical significance at a time like this.

He's ridiculously grateful when they finally reach the house, even if his heart is thumping a thousand times a minute, and his finger feels as thought it might shoot anything that moves.

Maybe this is what Hotch means when he says that Morgan's too restless. He reads those yearly reports that say he sometimes goes into situations half-cocked, and he thinks that Hotch is over-exaggerating a little, but in this moment, he understands.

Even still, when he kicks the door in, it's with enough force to knock down a sumo wrestler, and when he steps inside, all he can feel is the deadly silence, hanging in the air. Sometimes…sometimes you can just tell when there's no-one left alive, without even having seen the bodies. Morgan's got that feeling now, and it terrifies the crap out of him.

He steps into the kitchen, and his heart skips a beat. One moment, it's thudding away like a jackhammer, and then, there's just…nothing. It comes back round again, even faster than before, and if he wasn't so focused on the situation, he might have found himself fearing a heart attack.

'In here!' he called out, dropping to his knees beside Emily. He's kind of vaguely aware of their unsub, lying dead on the blood beside them, but that's really not important right now. Emily's eyes are closed, and there's blood staining her clothes – a _lot_ of blood – and she looks like she's been to hell and back, but he can _just_ see the slow rise and fall of her chest – breathing that won't be there very much longer if the paramedics don't get here soon.

He manages to tear himself away as they arrive, but his eyes remained glued to the scene, unable to move. The whole team has been through so much, it seems like the universe is out to get them. Reid would probably say that it's something to do with the nature of the job, and the prevalence of violence, but Morgan thinks that after all they've done, fate needs to cut them some slack.

Right now, that just doesn't seem likely.


	10. Dawn

**Title: **Growing  
**Rating: **PG-13**  
Fandom: **Criminal Minds  
**Universe: **Time Is Running Out (Part 2)**  
Characters/Pairing:** Prentiss/Jordan  
**Genre: **Drama/Angst**  
Summary: **You've got plenty of time to re-evaluate your life when you're cuffed to a chair in an unsub's basement.**  
**

Growing

_**Love is the difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.**_

_Iris Murdoch_

…

VIII

A heavy weight hangs in the air.

Every year, one or two of the team – usually Rossi or Reid – will do the Academy presentation, answering the questions of those who one day hope to become an FBI question. One of the most common questions is "Is it exciting?" and the answer is always – _always _– "Not as much as you might think."

And that's the job – 95% paperwork, canvassing and profiling, 4% strapping on Kevlar, and 1% sheer, unadulterated terror. No matter how often it happens, you can never, ever get used to that 1%. Every time a team member – a friend – is in peril, or in hospital, or otherwise incapacitated, there's always the thought that maybe, this will be the time that the paramedics don't get there in time, or the bullet just does too much damage.

They've been lucky so far; no-one's died, not since Boston. That's almost seven years.

Maybe this time their luck has run out.

Emily's been in surgery for thirty-seven minutes, during which Jennifer Jareau has made three phone calls. The first to Ambassador Prentiss, the second to Jordan Todd, and the third to Will. Emily will want to see her daughter when she wakes up, and JJ refuses to admit that Emily might _not_ wake up.

Not this time. Not today.

Garcia and Will are both on their way, and JJ's pretty sure that Jordan is as well – there's no denying the fact that _something_ had been going on between Emily and Jordan before today, even if neither of them had been willing to admit it. They're good for each other, in so many ways.

In the waiting room, nobody talks. Morgan paces, and Rossi wrings his hands together, and JJ taps her feet, but otherwise, that deadly silence is overwhelming. Usually Emily's here too, grasping JJ's hand, or giving a comforting smile, but there's none of that now, and JJ can't quite accept the possibility that there might never be any of that ever again,

It's a ridiculously sobering thought.

A little over an hour later, there's still no word. It feels like it's too soon to have any word from the O.R., but they all pause at the sound of hurried footsteps coming down the hallway. Garcia.

Not just Garcia, JJ soon realizes. Jordan's there too, looking more flustered than she's ever seen her. Of course, JJ had been away for most of the time Jordan was active in the BAU, but judging by the expression on Morgan's face, it is something different.

'What's happening?' Jordan demands, in a tone of voice that would have made some men go crying to their mothers. Apparently, though, the men on this team are immune. Morgan stares at the Counter-Terrorism Agent with tired eyes.

'She killed the unsub, but not before he managed to do some damage.'

"Some damage" is an understatement. JJ had seen that kitchen. She'd seen the blood, and the chaotic mess. It looked as though a finely-focused tornado had torn through the place. A tornado, or a brutal fight between an FBI agent and a serial killer.

'…she took a beating, as well as a few knife wounds,' Morgan continues, in that same exhausted voice, but this time it's apologetic as well. 'She's in surgery,' he adds, as though it hadn't been a foregone conclusion.

'Jordan,' Hotch says, in a voice that's simultaneously commanding and comforting. Jordan gives him a look, and for a moment JJ thinks that the tension in the air might snap – Jordan and Hotch had never had the most friendly relationships – but finally, Jordan gives a huff and takes the empty seat next to Reid.

Garcia gives Morgan a hug, and seconds afterwards, JJ finds a pair of arms being wrapped around her tightly. Garcia's mascara is running, her eyes blatantly red. 'I am never letting that girl out of my sight again,' she mumbles into JJ's shoulder, and JJ gives a half laugh. If Garcia had her way, they'd all spend their lives handcuffed to chairs in the Batcave.

It feels like an eternity before the Doctor comes along, blood-stained scrubs making JJ feel sick to her stomach. He looks exasperated, but not upset, and JJ feels a great weight lifting off her shoulders when he smiles.

'Miss Prentiss lost a fair bit of blood, but we managed to repair the damage, and she should heal without complications.' JJ can feel the nervous energy that's radiating from Garcia; the tech is probably about half a second from crash-tackling the surgeon into a bear hug. JJ puts a hand on her best friend's shoulder, in an attempt to calm the nerves, if nothing else.

'Everything's going to be okay, Garcia,' JJ says, but damned if that isn't hard to believe.

…

I'm kind of groggy.

No.

That's an understatement.

I feel like my mouth is stuffed with cotton wool, and I have marshmallows for eyes, and someone's replaced all of my blood with Morphine so I can't feel a damn thing.

Also, I think I'm craving chocolate cake.

Stranger things.

My eyes blink open experimentally; if I'm lying on an unsubs table, about to be sliced open and disemboweled, then I really don't want to be sitting up too suddenly. The IV that's jammed into the back of my wrist and the white-coated Doctor aren't an immediate giveaway, because it still could be an unsub harboring delusions of medical grandeur, but Morgan's there too, which means that I'm probably not about to die.

I seriously hope I'm not about to die.

That would really suck.

I shift backwards, just stopping short of actually pulling myself up, considering that would probably result in my falling out of bed. Not particularly desirable when your entire body is numb.

'How're you feeling?' Morgan seems to be asking. His voice starts off a little blurry, but by the time he's finished talking, I can hear each word clearly. When I reply with a thumbs up, he gives a short laugh.

'The rest of the team are waiting outside,' he says. 'Doctor McPherson here says they can come in, but if you aren't feeling up to it, then it can wait.'

I shake my head, and then nod, realizing that I am probably confusing the crap out of Morgan. 'I'm fine,' I tell him, in a croaky voice. I clear my throat, but that hurts as much as talking. 'Bring them in.' It's a little less horrendous that time, sounding more like my own voice, rather than freaking Gollum.

Somewhat self-conscious of the fact that I'm in a hospital bed, wearing a gown that doesn't really cover much at all, I watch as they enter one at a time. If I was a little less jacked up on Morphine, I might be able to read Hotch's expression, but as it stands, he just looks frowny. The rest of the team have varying expressions of concern, ranging from JJ's grim smile to Jordan's….

Crap.

Jordan's here.

Of all the times, all the places to be having this talk, in hospital hooked up to a drip is probably not a good one. "Hey, Jordan, sorry I hung up on you the other day, I got kidnapped by a torturous serial killer. By the way, did you want to grab dinner some time?"

Yeah, right.

'Hey,' is the only greeting I can manage.

'How're you feeling?' Garcia asks, hovering at my side. They feel like three of the most overused words in the history of everything.

'Hell of a birthday present,' I mutter, which doesn't get as many laughs as it would of, had it been any other circumstances. We really need to work on Hotch's sense of humor.

'Please don't do that again,' Jordan says, with tears in her eyes. Crap. I bite my lip, not quite sure what to say. There's a look between Morgan and Hotch.

'How about we give you guys a minute?' Morgan says, and Garcia's almost about to vehemently disagree when JJ grabs her by the arm. Reid follows without argument. I really need to buy them all a drink, when the time comes.

'I'm sorry,' I murmur, letting her take my hand as she sits on the edge of the bed.

'It's okay, Em…I just…Try to be careful, okay?' She leans down, and lays a kiss on my forehead. With the hand that _isn't_ hampered by the IV, I redirect her to my lips. Her own lips are soft, her kisses gentle.

'Thanks for the present,' I tell her. 'Though…I'm not really sure where it is right now, I…'

She kisses me again, and I get the hint.

'You want to grab a drink sometime?' I ask her, while I still have the breath left to talk.

'You're on,' Jordan says with a grin.

Fan-fucking-tastic.


End file.
